Cobalt Bullet
by Brid Riain
Summary: Snape mourns and contemplates death and his own morality. He's a right cheerful fellow, especially when I write about him.


Thank you to my reviewers! Blackletter, Baka Kitsune, and especially Rune (insert blush here).   
Apparently, I enjoy an angsty Snape much more than I should. 

Ickle Sevviekins is all Ms. Rowling's and Warner Brothers'   
I own my ability to write run-on sentences, and not much else. 

  
  


Cobalt Bullet

  
  
shivers gentle run through the body   
nestled ball of fluff   
pipes are calling   
the depth of blue 

  
A man, famed for his aloof coldness, was curled into a tight ball, wrapped in a blanket, staring into the fathomless depths of a fire that gave him no warmth, despite the dramatically raised temperature in the dungeon-like room in which he now resided. A mirthless thought suddenly occurred to him; how the many upon which his wrath had been wreaked would have broken into gales of satisfied laughter at the sight of him. He presently resembled a wounded dog more than anything else, and as he reflected upon the thought, this description seemed the most accurate image he could conjure to compare himself to. His pitiful sense of self-worth had been restored to a meager degree with his "redemption," if it could be called that. It seemed more like a deal made out of desperation, a pact with devil made only as a last resort. If the Ministry "good guys" were winning the war, a wizard with his dark past would have been Dementor fodder long ago. However, having "seen the errors of his ways," he had been given full pardon in exchange for his "valuable service." His snort suppresses, not laughter, but endless, all-consuming self-hatred and despair. A carefully constructed fortress with ten-foot thick walls built around oneself truly is a thing of beauty. To be sure, love and warmth never penetrated the walls, but neither did the madness, nor the hungry grief. He and his bitter sarcasm had become quite close chums. You never saw one without the other. 

The sinister and bone-chilling sound of his laughter, the only quality he currently possessed that was even remotely frightening, rang out in a half crazed, half angry sort of way, echoing slightly off the stone walls. Severus Snape was a desperate man. 

The two truths he held most dear throughout his forays into the Dark Arts had both been proven false in a single day. The first was that no matter how dire the "Voldemort situation," as it had first been referred to, became, James Potter would lead a charmed, heroic life, always seemingly in peril, but never truly threatened or damaged. The Chosen One would always remain untouched. The second, the most necessary mantra in preserving his sanity, was that however deeply embroiled in the web of Death and Hatred he became, Severus would _always_ be able to discontinue these activities if necessary. Each theory seemed proven fact. Seemed is a very deceptive word. It is quite reminiscent of appeared and assumed. And we all know what assuming does. 

On this day, November the first, in the year 1981, AD, Severus's train had derailed and crashed into a wall. A wall of impenetrable steel. For he had hesitated. The lingering hatred for a man who, despite sharing with Severus a mutual loathing so potent it inspired attempted murder in compatriots, had saved his life at terrible risk to his own life. He had hesitated to save him, and it was killing him. Killing him as it had killed James Potter less than a day before. He had orphaned a child, failed in a life debt and was devouring him. But this consumption was slow and meticulous, and only imbibed the intagible will to live. By his own estimates, Severus would be committing suicide in the next week or so. If he could conquer his own stubborn will, which he now viewed only as cowardice. 

As he sat there, a great lump of melancholy and potent anger, he crawled at a snail's pace to a conclusion that would satiate his own self-masochism and personal Jiminy Cricket in one fell swoop. He would protect the only remaining reminder of his tormentor and savior. He would take that position Dumbledore had offered, replacing the retiring Potions Master. He would watch over the newly dubbed Boy Who Lived, whom his was sure was a clone of the stuck-up, intolerable Potter Sr, if in personality alone. He would force himself to live for a decade until then, his obligation unfulfilled, his students irritating and dull-witted. He was never a hand with children, but no matter. That would make his self-imposed punishment all the more appropriate. He may have been surly and have resembled some bird of carrion or minion of Death more than a Greek god, but he was determined. 

He would be waiting. 

  
  
I'm not very nice to poor Severus, am I? If you'd like to tell me off for sheer cruelly or dementia, drop a line or two. Otherwise, feel free to give any commentary you'd like.   



End file.
